<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>I got you, you've got whatever's left in me to get by KatrinaKeynes</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356275">I got you, you've got whatever's left in me to get</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKeynes/pseuds/KatrinaKeynes'>KatrinaKeynes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Warcraft - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>8.3, A Bit of Slash, Drama, Gen, I wrote it instead of sleep back in January, M/M, Translation, and by tiny I mean really tiny, cause our son was back, for this time, from Russian to English that is, mostly emotions, my first translation in... decades I guess, tiny canon divergence AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:23:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,317</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356275</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKeynes/pseuds/KatrinaKeynes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrathion has many things to say, but he hisses "Well, I deserved that".</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I got you, you've got whatever's left in me to get</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            A translation of

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22264795">У меня есть ты, а у тебя — всё, что осталось от меня</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKeynes/pseuds/KatrinaKeynes">KatrinaKeynes</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well... I wrote this little thingy back in January right after THAT cinematic.<br/>And that's indeed my first translation from Russian to English in over a decade. Last time it was the university assignment. Something far more formal, like a letter to the supplier or smth.</p><p>I tried. Please be gentle and do tell about any mistakes you see. </p><p>I also sketch — http://spaceinthecage.tumblr.com</p><p>Work title from The Mountain Goats - Southwood Plantation Road.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         Anger is good. Of that Wrathion is sure.</p><p>         Anger is better than screaming void. Or fear. Or nothing at all.</p><p>         Anduin's anger is mesmerizing, and Wrathion can't take his eyes of him. That anger is almost as good as wrath.</p><p>         Wrathion was expecting the punch — he deserved it. Oh, he deserved so much more, and king of Stormwind doesn't pull his punches. Wrathion feels the heat of a blow, flashing pain of a cut. He's calling his inner fire, a gift from the ancestors, but then just… stops.</p><p>         He lets that pain be a reminder.</p><p>         Wrathion has many things to say, but he hisses "Well, I deserved that".</p><p>         Anduin scowls. But his eyes are clear, his demeanor is sure — the king of Stormind is not an empty shell that ceased to be human. He's tired, that he is, but under all this regalness, all that bitterness, all that strangeness Wrathion still sees the little prince, who was ready to run across the continent for greater good, ready to trick his father’s spies, to become friends with a dragon. The black dragon nonetheless, even though Anduin should be terrified of them after what happened in Onyxia's cave.</p><p> </p><p>         They talk.</p><p>         They talk of the world that needs saving. They never stopped talking about it.</p><p>         Wrathion can't help but notice that now he's taller. Not much, but still. He is taller than his prince.</p><p>         Anduin's hands are shaking. Wrathion's cheek is on fire.</p><p>          He doesn't remember how they got to the library, but he remembers some kind of understanding in Baine's eyes and Magni's frown. And the creak of the closing door.</p><p>         What gods Wrathion should praise for the absence of one and only Genn Greymayne? He is the first in line to rip his throat. Or kidney. Or something else very vital.</p><p>         Well… maybe not the first, but definitely the second.</p><p>         "It hurts, isn’t?" Anduin doesn’t wait for an answer. "Good."</p><p>         Wrathion wouldn’t answer anyway. He’s just sitting there, in the library, in the heart of the human kingdom and feels the heaviness of the world on his… well, his everything. His eyes trail the king. Oh, that title feels so wrong on his tongue. Wrathion’s not sure how one must talk of the war that he unleashed on the world and then… just left. He promised to be there for Anduin, to stand by his side, by mortals’ side… he just never said when will it be. Now is as good as any other day.</p><p>         Wrathion’d fought his own battles, but had’t everyone? Please, enjoy your own personal war, good sir. Do not fear, this war is not pointless like the one between the Alliance and the Horde, no, sir. Be sure of that.</p><p>         Anduin opens some drawers — he’s looking for something there, disturbing the dust. He finally finds it, little block of magic ice, and covers it with the cloth, blue with golden lions. Of course. There’s no other lining in Stormwind’s keep.</p><p>         "That’s on SI7 agents. They use library for… many inappropriate things," explains Anduin and throws the ice in the general direction of Wrathion. <em>The advisor</em>. Couldn’t Magni find better (and more proper) title? Wrathion’s not good at giving advices. Or giving anything at all.</p><p>         Wrathion’s not sure what to do with the ice. He stares. And then stares some more until it downs at him, and he brings the ice to his face.</p><p>         Wrathion hisses. Smoke rises through his teeth.</p><p>         He could heal in a matter of seconds, but he’s concentrating on the pain instead, trying to categorize it. Well, it’s worse than ”my plans are no good”. And infinitely better than ”I’m the catalyst of the world’s end, yeah, that very end I did swear to prevent”.</p><p>         "Lately," says Anduin, and here’s too close; when did he invade Wrathion’s personal space (was he always there)?</p><p>         His fingers are ghosting the ice in Wrathion’s hand. </p><p>"…I don’t even remember how to…" Anduin stumbles over words, but Wrathion understands. And blurts without any thinking. "I’m not so surprised."</p><p>         He then clenches his teeth in case something far more horrible escapes his traitorous mouth. His face must show fear. Or something else, ‘cause Anduin just sighs and moves away…</p><p>          And Wrathion doesn’t ask him about the Light. The question tastes like blood in his mouth.</p><p>         "When I saw you last you couldn’t even heal that leg of yours…" jeers Wrathion instead. He feels like he at least can get away with this one.</p><p>         And Anduin actually smiles. "Well, when you saw me last, I was barely sixteen," he locks eyes with the Black Prince. "But I was of age at least."</p><p>         Wrathion is the master of this game. He knows all the rules. He can talk about sweet nothings till the end of times.</p><p>         "You even celebrated it. What a party it was! All that poor pandaren plum wine that went straight to the hot spring…"</p><p>         "And whose fault was that? Some clumsy dragon claws…"</p><p>         "Some eager little human…"</p><p>         They are bickering again, as if they never left that misty tavern at the end of the world. And it’s the easy part — the bickering. As if they never stopped doing this. As if there was no green flames from the skies, no silence. As if…</p><p>         Anduin’s hands are bare. When did he get rid of the gloves? Wrathion shivers and drops the ice under his shirt. Jumps in surprise and tries to fish it out. His cheek’s burning. Like that demon crusade. He crashes the ice with his boots and stops. It’s almost comical, really. He’s furious with that damned ice. And he’s so fucking furious with himself. Wrathion’s not the one for forgiveness. Especially for himself.</p><p>          Anduin laughs. And his laugh is genuine: he scowls, then smiles, and that smile shines through his eyes. He shakes with laughter. Well, the Black Prince dancing with ice… It is quite a sight. An escape. An excuse, really. Because the world is ending. Again. And there is a dwarf and a tauren behind the library doors, and deep down the surface there is an Old God. And he’s awaken.</p><p>         There’s also a flicker of Light on Anduin’s fingertips. He notices it and catches his breath.</p><p>         The king points to the bench, and Wrathion obediently sits. And then jumps up again — a piece of that damned ice is on the bench too.</p><p>         This time Andin doesn’t laugh. He smiles, though. It’s a bitter smile, the kind that creeps on your lips ‘cause of the joke that no one will understand.</p><p>         " Yeah, that was very funny indeed, my prince," mocks Wrathion.</p><p>         Next to Anduin Wrathion always feels young. Very young, like a human that knows nothing about the world — not like the heir to the whole Black Dragonflight. And he misses an amused face of the king and wonder flashing in his eyes — Anduin was not sure that he’ll ever talk with the Black Prince like this. Like nothing’s changed and like everything’s going to be alright someday. Wrathion misses all of this, but he certainly feels the touch of warm fingers on his cheek. And hisses, just a little.</p><p>         Light healing is not a miracle. Wrathion could easily heal on his own. But Anduin needs this. And maybe Wrathion does too. That touch is not far from a miracle anyway.</p><p>         The Light is gone, but Anduin’s fingers stay. Wrathion fights the urge to tilt his head, to feel all of the king’s hand on his cheek-bone. What if he closes his eyes… tilts his head… and waits for another miracle?</p><p>         Wrathion, of course, doesn't do any of this. But he does not step back either. Flames should roar under his skin, but it’s Anduin’s hand that is burning. And Wrathion breaths: "Anduin."</p><p>          It is the king who steps back: he lowers his hand, and suddenly Wrathion’s cold. Or maybe he’d forgotten the true meaning of the warmth all along.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>